The Wrong Idea Could So Easily Be the Right One
by darthsydious
Summary: For Artbylexie. Sherlock has temporary amnesia and is very confused as to what role Molly played in his life. Sherlolly. Oh so much. Also Warston, and Mythea if you squint.


"I don't understand; why can't I see him?" Molly implored.

"It isn't advisable yet," Mycroft warned her. "My brother's condition is rather delicate; I am afraid it may upset you."

Molly gave him a look. "The only thing that is upsetting me is your keeping me from seeing my friend, Mycroft Holmes, now get out of the way before I move you out of the way." John Watson, who was leaning against the wall of the front hallway of 221b, covered his mouth, as if wiping away a smile. Mary nudged him, giving him a scolding look.

"I hardly find this amusing, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said rather waspishly, and John sobered again. "My brother is suffering amnesia, and all you can do is snigger in the corner."

"His memory problems are temporary," John clarified. "Physically, mentally, he's sound as a pound, he just needs time. He's catching on."

"I should like to point out that the only thing he could recall with any accuracy is the gun with which your wife shot him."

John gave Mycroft a dirty look before turning to Molly. "He remembers us all, he just has some of his facts muddled," John said, "He's going to be a little bit confused when you talk to him. He thought Mary and I were only just engaged when we picked him up from the hospital."

"Oh," Molly looked upstairs, wondering how she would be received.

"It won't hurt him," Mary said. "It may help him sort some things out, seeing another familiar face."

Finally, Mycroft nodded, muttering in agreement.

Having gained entry, however, Molly suddenly hesitated, afraid of what she might find on the other side of the door.

"My brother's condition is delicate," Mycroft reiterated. "I would ask that you not agitate him."

"Of course, I'll only stay a little while," Molly replied softly.

"We'll wait a few minutes down here, then come up," John promised her.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed the stairs, knocking lightly on the door.

" _Come in!"_

Well that certainly _sounded_ like the Sherlock she knew. Pushing open the door, she stepped inside.

Sherlock was busy trying to piece his mind palace back together when someone knocked on his door. There were parts missing still to his memory, very important parts…a person, a voice…

Somewhere in his mind palace a naked woman was stalking about.

" _Nope, definitely not you, though I appreciate the effort."_

" _One must always try," The Woman smiled, red-lipped, eyes sharp as ever. "But you didn't need to conjure me up to know it isn't me you're looking for. Not him, either," she nodded to Moriarty in the corner, straightjacketed. "Let's think about who in your life is missing. You've got the Watsons, your brother, the PA he's clearly shagging-" an incessant knocking disturbed him, and he looked around as The Woman continued: "And Mrs. Hudson has made herself known, so it's not her you're missing. Parents, Anderson, Lestrade," she tapped her chin. "You've almost got it, just think harder-"_

" _I know! I know!" Sherlock growled out, clutching his head. "Just stop, everyone shut up, shut up, shut up!"_

"I didn't say anything,"

Startled, Sherlock whirled around, realizing he wasn't alone. There stood a woman. A woman with a kind face, with large eyes and mousy hair. Her name escaped him, but he felt warmth blossom in his chest, so much so that it ached. He felt as if he'd finally come home. He must love this woman!

"Sherlock what is it?" Molly asked, trying not to be disturbed by his penetrating gaze. There was more behind his eyes than mere deductions, did he even remember her?

Sherlock went on staring at this woman, affection swelling by the moment. She'd been in his life for a long time, he was certain of it. Flashes of memories skittered through his mind's eye (were they memories or fantasies?). He loved this woman, he was certain of it, he felt it in the pit of his stomach. He'd loved her for so very, very long. How long? Slowly, he recalled two particular memories: one, of this woman promising her help with all surety, faith and trust shining in her eyes, the next, his return to London (he could recall that fairly well), surprising her in a locker room. She whirled around, breath catching in her throat, and what he was certain was 'love' in her expression.

"Molly," he breathed, uttering her name like a prayer. He crossed the room in two strides, bringing her into his arms, kissing her senseless. Here was life in his arms! Here was the rest of him, at last complete! This woman, this marvelous, wonderful woman who mattered the most to him. How could he ever have forgotten?

Molly did not know how to behave for a moment, unsure if she should just let him go on as he was, or push him away. Pushing him away might disturb him, and Mycroft said Sherlock's mind was already in a delicate place. Clearly, though, Sherlock's idea of what she was to him was very, very different than what it used to be.

Before she could gently extricate herself from Sherlock's amorous grasp, he released her, only to gaze once more at her.  
"How could I have forgotten you?" he murmured, more to himself, though his mouth quirked at the flush spreading across her features.

She ducked her head. "Well it's understandable, I-"

"It isn't," he insisted. "You of all people!"

It was then that Mycroft, John and Mary made their entrance. Sherlock looked accusingly at all of them.

"Why didn't anyone tell me I was married?!"

The four looked back at him, shocked.

"Beg pardon?" John asked, with a frown.

Sherlock, arm settled securely around Molly's waist, looked quite indignant at them all. "My wife, damn it! How dare you keep this from me! What was the poor woman to do until I remembered? Live on the street?!"

Mycroft tried to speak, "Sherlock I don't think-"

"Of course _you_ wouldn't approve," he snapped

"No, Sherlock, that's not what he meant-" John tried.

"We aren't married."

Everyone turned to look at Molly, who had up until that moment been silent.

Sherlock looked at her, shocked, glancing at the others.

Slowly, she extricated herself from him, selfishly wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.

"What?" Sherlock looked flabbergasted, as if she'd sprouted two heads.

"Y-you're confused, you must be thinking of someone else, of…of Janine or Irene Alder or-"

"I am not confused," Sherlock answered firmly. "I am as sure of this as I am that my name is Sherlock Holmes." He bent his head low, speaking softly: "Was it a secret? Have we not told anyone? You needn't pretend if that is the case-"

"No," Molly insisted, feeling as if she were on the verge of tears. Having Sherlock hold her as he had, to have him kiss her as he just did…it brought up feelings Molly had pushed down deep. She'd worked hard to keep her friendship with him on an even keel, to not let herself feel things she shouldn't, that she knew he would not reciprocate. All that flew out of the window as soon as he drew her into his arms, as soon as he kissed her and said such lovely things to her. She drew breath, trying to gather her strength. "No we're not married, not in secret, or any other way…we-"

Mary bit her lip, seeing Molly almost lose herself to tears.

"We're not engaged or anything else. We aren't anything." Molly finished.

Sherlock, bewildered, looked to the others for confirmation.

"Don't put it like that," Mary said at last. "You're both friends, good friends. Sherlock, Molly has been a confidant to you, a trusted friend when you had nowhere else to turn. She's saved you, and London, several times."

"Never mind, Mary," Molly wiped her eyes. "It was a mistake to come, I'm sorry." Shouldering her bag, she hurried out of the flat, leaving the group to stand about awkwardly, Sherlock staring at the empty place where she'd been standing.

Molly went back to her flat, kicking the door shut and locking it. Her first instinct was to look around and find Toby, only remembering too late (again) that she'd had to put Toby down several weeks ago. Sherlock's accident on the heels of her cat's death was a double-blow. Now she was sure that things were well and truly screwed between them. He'd be embarrassed and avoid her now, and John and Mary, out of consideration for their closest friend, would stay away as well. What had she been thinking?!

A gentle 'tap-tap-tap' disturbed her thoughts, and she sighed heavily.

"Go away, Mary, please, I know what you're trying to do, but I don't want to hear it, not now."

The tumblers in the lock clicked, and she sighed heavily. Slowly, the door opened, and rather than a woman, a man's head poked around the corner. "Sorry," Sherlock said quietly. "But you did tell Mary to go away. I assumed it would be all right if I entered."

Despite her tears, Molly found herself smiling a little. "That sounds more like you."

Sherlock frowned as he shut the door. "Did I often barge in?" he asked, then nodded after a moment, recalling. "Ah yes."

"It's all right, it'd be odd if you didn't," Molly excused. "Sherlock," she heaved a sigh. "You needn't apologize, you aren't yourself at this moment, so I'd- I'd be more than happy to forget what happened."

He held very still. "Would you?" silence stretched between them, and Molly finally looked back at him. "I wouldn't," he said at last. "I should hate to forget it, and I've forgotten so many things lately."

"You were just confused," Molly tried again.

"Stop saying that!" Sherlock burst out. "I am not confused! I am not transferring feelings for someone else onto you, there is no one else!"

Molly stared, open-mouthed at him. He sighed angrily, frustrated, scrubbing his hand through his short curls.

"I remember…pieces, bits of feelings, if that makes any sense. I remember flirting with you, or trying to, at any rate…" he finally met her gaze. "I remember a black velvet dress and you trying to hide the straps of your lingerie, and a gift. I remember lipstick, your lipstick, how much I wanted to kiss the silly stuff off you, I remember your perfume, that-" he waved his hand, trying to think of the brand. "Whatever it is from Chanel, and your nail varnish, your God-awful Christmas sweaters. I remember you crying, I think I'd done that, I felt sick for a week after. I've done and said awful things to you, Molly."

"You always apologized," she answered quietly.

"I was trying for so long to push you away," he took a step forward. "Or at least until recently I was,"

"Yes," she nodded. "We've been good friends, lately…"

"I wanted so much more than that, if you'd known," he shoved his hands into his pockets, startled when he realized there was something tucked between his gloves. He pulled it out, a small wooden box, one a person might purchase at a jewelry store. Before he could wonder aloud, Molly placed her hand over the box, keeping him from opening it.

"Leave that be for now," she said, at last finding her voice.

"I remember so much, and yet so much more I can't tell if it's real or just wished-for, I think so much of it was what I wanted it to be between us, I've muddled them all." He blinked, eyes red-rimmed from crying. "When you came to Baker Street, and I saw you…you were the first person that I- I was so sure we were something, I was certain above all else that I loved you, that we loved each other, I was so glad for that certainty, nothing has been sure for the past week, and then you came in and I-"

"Hush," Molly covered his mouth with her hand. "Don't distress yourself,"

"I am not distressed," He insisted. "But I will be if you tell me we are nothing more than friends. If this accident has done anything, it has shown me what an absolute idiot I've been, depriving myself, depriving us, of what we could be. Please tell me you feel the same," he begged.

Trembling, Molly nodded jerkily, finally meeting his gaze. "Yes, yes I-I love- I love you-"

"Thank God," he captured her mouth with his, sighing against her.

"I do love you," she insisted as he ducked his head, pressing his mouth anywhere it would reach: cheeks, lips, nose, forehead, neck and back to her mouth again.

"And I you," he promised. "Will you come to Baker Street, please? Come home."

"Yes," she breathed, nodding again. "Yes I will."

When they returned, the others were there waiting, per Sherlock's request. John, upon seeing them, only shook his head with a sigh and a laugh.

"It would take amnesia for Sherlock Holmes to discover he has feelings for someone."

"I beg your pardon, John," Sherlock looked miffed. "I didn't discover them, I simply remembered them." Some might swear it was the same thing, but to Molly and Sherlock, they knew very well it made all the difference in the world.


End file.
